Before the Apocalypse
by The Crane Wife
Summary: Daryl reconciles the loss of Carol in the only way he knows how.
1. Shattered

_So I watched the episode where Daryl finds Carol after she's been missing and kind of wanted to expound on what (I think) he was thinking. Because hearing Norman Reedus say that Carol and Daryl hooking up should be as awkward as possible makes me think, game on! Potentially more than a one shot (but no promises). T for language, thanks to Daryl's potty mouth. A sort of sequel to my other story, but reading not required to understand this one. Just saying that makes me feel douchy. Anyway! Spoilers of the TV show abound. I think that's all. Enjoy!  
_

* * *

___6 months earlier.  
__(Approximately.)_

_Carol is crying for the third night in a row over her beautiful, angelic daughter and dead husband. _

_Her dead, son of a bitch husband. _

_The first night it happens, he rolls over and puts his pillow over his head. "Give it a goddamn rest, will ya?" because he remembers that night, however long ago it was now, feels like lifetimes, when he found her at the quarry and he still thinks about that sometimes, the way she looked at him and the way she looked to him in the moonlight, but he doesn't want her to get the impression that he actually gives a shit. Even though he does._

_The second night, he puts the pillow over his head, but says nothing. He wants her to stop. Not because he blames he for crying, but because she's lost so much and he can't fix it. He's spent months trying, but he can't. He's an idiot for believing, even for a second, that roses and shoulder massages could change the hurt she feels._

_The third night, he sits up and they do nothing except stare at each other. She continues crying and he feels better knowing that he's up with her, able to watch her; she won't go doin' nothin' stupid while he's awake. They smile simultaneously when this thought crosses their minds at the same time. Or so he thinks, anyway._

_He sighs. _

_She'll be the death of me, he thinks. What a nice way to go._

/

Daryl's holding her knife. He slams it into the ground he's sitting on, feeling the vibration of the blade on concrete all the way up his arm, in his marrow, directly in his core. It's like he's shattered, every bone, every piece of him. It's like there's nothing worthwhile left, nothing in this whole world since she's left it. _She left him_.

He slams the knife again.  
He realizes that she's really gone, has been for days, likely will never come back.  
He wonders if he'd be able to kill her, if she turned into one of those things.  
He thinks not.  
He shatters a thousand times over.

His knife – her knife – collides with the floor and then with the wall and then he's standing, pacing, thinking _Dixon's don't cry_ and trying to hold himself to it. He'd mourned his brother, of course he had, he does, but what did he gain without him? A family. A real one. People who care if he's gone for any amount of time and who care about how he feels and what he wants and… people who just _care_. Merle taught him all he knew of the world and Daryl remains grateful; but both had their demons and really what he learned from Merle was that you can't ever outrun your past. It always comes back to you.

And she.

_She._

She was beautiful and she was nice to him. She didn't judge. She had a spine, more so than anybody else around here. She yelled at him when he needed to hear it and she was quiet and caring, even though he refused to be the same. She gave him something he didn't know he craved and she gave him something stronger than believing in Darwinism to fight for when the entire world went to shit. She accepted him. She was everything. _Everything_.

God, he misses her.

/

Before the apocalypse, Daryl would relax by drinking cheap whiskey or smoking one too many cigarettes, having sex with a stranger who's name he wouldn't know or remember the next morning or getting in a bar fight.  
Before the apocalypse, his big brother would have been present for all of these occurrences.  
Before the apocalypse, Merle was always the catalyst.

Before the apocalypse, a woman like _her_ wouldn't have given him a second look, on account of his reputation.  
Before the apocalypse, he wouldn't have looked twice at her either.  
Before the apocalypse.

Well.

Everything was different then, wasn't it?

(Yes, obviously.)

This is the apocalypse, the end of the goddamn world. And to decompress, Daryl wants to _rip something limb from fucking limb_. The door in front of him opens and shuts tantalizingly.

_Yeah, I'm comin' for you, asshole._

/

He kicks the door and wonders if this will help. Wonders if this will quell in him the monster that he's become. He kills without thinking because he's a survivalist first. He always has been. Maybe Merle gave him that, too.

_Fuck_.

There's no fighting it and he's done resisting. The walker lying dead in front of the door is moved and he's barging in ready for blood. Ready for death. Ready for absolutely anything and nothing at once, until he looks down and there's a moment where he pauses, wonders where the war he's waiting for is, why it's not coming, but he catches sight of something moving on the floor. He raises the knife, ready, here it comes now, sweet oblivion, a world that is designed specifically as an outlet for the kind of rage only brought out of someone who loves-

_It'syouohmygodholyshitfuckit'syouit'syou._

-the one thing he's not ready for.

"Carol."

He touches her, her face, because he has to, because he needs to know she's _real_, because he doesn't trust and she recognizes that in him, so she doesn't flinch away ever, even if she's got a thousand reasons to. He touches her because he hasn't lost her. He touches her because he knows now, more than ever, that he's never going to let her go again.

His arms slide under her small frame and she falls against him. His heart is racing.

_Don't worry, I gotcha now._

/


	2. Watchdog

Mind: super blown after last Sunday's episode. None of which is mentioned in here, but you know, just wanted to throw that out there. In any case, hello, thanks for reading! This is chapter two. Thank you to the lovely Demonic Hope, who proofread/beta'd/understood my brain enough to fix my word order woes for me. Enjoy!

* * *

The first night she's back, he sits in the corner of her cell, busying himself with cleaning his crossbow, watching while she sleeps. Maybe. Is she sleeping? He doesn't know. What he does know is that he's not ready to take his eyes off of her yet, like if he blinks too long, she'll be gone again and he'll be… well, he'll be a wreck again. His feet are crossed and he remembers that feeling he had in the pit of his stomach, when he was sitting outside the closet he didn't know she was holed up in. Dread. Fear. Loss, permeating and permanent. He can't lose her too.

Can't.

Won't.

Same thing.

"What're you still doin' here?" she mutters; her voice startles him, so quiet and hoarse from lack of use, lack of water. He looks over and sees that she's sitting up, and he knows she's been watching him for a while.

He swallows.

_I'm here 'cause I don't know where else to be. 'Cause I thought you was dead. 'Cause you ain't. 'Cause I should've protected you. I'm here 'cause—_

"'Cause you asked me to stay."

And even though he says it in his matter of fact tone, as if he's that rules based he'd just sit with her if he didn't want to, there's an obvious hesitation before she speaks. She knows he doesn't mean it like that. He can tell from her body language that she's smiling, the way her head falls, but snaps back to him; he's always unsure of how to act, doesn't know if he likes this, attachment and her and feeling this way, but he's drawn in like a moth to the flame. "I just… that room… I…"

_I was so goddamn terrified, I couldn't think straight? Yeah, me neither_, he finishes for her, but he's not good at this kind of thing, so he thinks it and doesn't say it, as usual.

"Doesn't matter," he cuts her off, goes back to cleaning whatever part of his arsenal of weapons is in front of him, "Just go back to sleep."

She rolls over.

He's gone before she wakes up in the morning.

/

The second night, he is nowhere to be found. She knows because she wakes with a start, in the middle of the night, by her guess, given how quiet and still everything is, although she knows better than to think everyone is sleeping. She slowly, quietly moves off of her bed, wondering if she's too young or too old to feel so frail. She gets to the door of her cell and she peeks her head out, makes sure there's nothing around that shouldn't be there. When she's confident it's clear, she walks out, past the other cells, past the other sleeping members of their group, and down the stairs. Someone sighs nearby and she smiles. She's glad to be back, really.

Downstairs, she walks slowly past each cell, her fingers tracing over the bars. Who knew she'd miss _this_ so much? Except that they've started thinking of this as home and that's worth more than anything these days. Yes, she missed these gray cells and dingy walls. The idea that she'd never see any of it again…

Her eyes are shimmering, tears threatening to fall as she contemplates this, when there's something on her shoulder, something weighted. She pauses, noting it's distinctly hand-shaped and without thinking, without flinching, she turns around and swings her right fist directly into the face of whatever it is, trying hard to squash a scream, only half succeeding. In hindsight, she thinks this is probably the stupidest thing she's done yet, since if her instinct with a walker is to punch it in the teeth, she's going to end up worse off than Merle.

Still, it proves effective. Somewhat.

There's a groan and a person stumbles backward. "For shits sake, what was that for?"

"Daryl?" she takes a tentative step forward and squints her eyes. He's straightened up, his hand still rubbing at his nose, but he's looking at her, she can feel it. She's moving with more purpose now, getting a better look at his face in the silvery light provided by the moon, "Daryl, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she keeps repeating, sounding almost panicked.

He's giving her a sidelong glance, checking his hand for blood, finding none, "It's nothin', it's fine." His fist falls to his side and he looks nearly impressed, "Who taught you to swing like that?"

She shrugs, her arms crossed over her chest, "Had to learn."

"Right," he replies awkwardly. Whether this is because of the life they live _now_ or the life she lived _then_, he's unsure, but he doesn't have the guts to ask. There's a pause and then he says, "Why ain't you sleepin'? It's late."

Finally, a smile. She looks at him sincerely, but with a teasing voice she says, "Can't sleep without my watchdog, I guess."

He scoffs, although his chest swells with something that he'll label as pride, but is probably a little closer to _affection_, and says, "Guess you won't be gettin' much sleep, then."

/

It's been 3 days, approximately, since Daryl found Carol in that room, that _tomb_. When everyone crowded around her cell, he stood back, watched everything unfold in front of him, involuntarily offered a smile as each person expressed how glad they were she was back. "Poor thing," he found himself saying about her, giving her a look that could only be described as adoring. He looks at her now with the same flooding, overwhelming sense of relief he did when he first laid eyes on her, first realized she was alive, first realized that this world is as full of enormous tragedies as it is of little victories. Even if she feels like the biggest victory he's had so far. They've all become too used to thinking that today could be the last day, today could mean death. She's a gift. After Lori and T-Dog and everything…

She's a fucking gift.

And on day 3, Daryl, worriedly, leaves, goes hunting for the day. Before he goes, he asks Carl to keep an eye on everyone. "Don't need nobody else goin' missin'," he says and Carl just nods, in that way that proves he's so much older than his biological age.

When Daryl finally reappears, it's late, nighttime. Carol's lying in her bed, hands folded on her chest, eyes closed, waiting. When he appears in the doorway of her cell, silhouetted, mysterious as ever, he announces his presence by clearing his throat. When she opens her eyes, he's before her, holding out a Cherokee Rose and she smiles. "Found this outside," he says, almost visibly flinching at the obviousness of this statement. _'course you found it outside, asshole._

"Aren't you sweet," and at this he makes a face because it's not often, or ever, that someone describes him as being sweet. He's more like a caged animal. A feral dog. _Or a watchdog._ "I promise I won't punch you this time," she quips, patting the mattress beside her.

He stiffens a little, unsure, but he swallows, braces himself. And then, he's walking over to her, passing off the flower. She shifts a little, so he can sit down next to her, which he does, an almost involuntary movement. There's a pregnant pause. He's staring intensely at the wall in front of them, focused on something she can't see. "I'm – we're _all_ glad you're back," he says finally, stubbornly refusing to look at anything else, but whatever is right in front of him.

This is the closest Daryl will ever come to being sentimental. She could cry.

"I'm glad I'm back, too. Who knew a person could miss this," and she gestures around them, the dilapidated bunk beds, barred windows, moldy walls, _him_. He nods his head, surveying their surroundings, before focusing his attention back to her.

He stands, strides across the room, confuses her for half a second, until he's sitting in the corner, where she realizes he's dropped his crossbow, his knife, his gun. There are cleaning supplies and she looks at him expectantly. "Rick's in the tower," he says, but she's still staring and he sighs, trying to find his courage. "Heard you can't sleep without a watchdog."

She lets out a laugh, quiet and secretive, and he can't help laughing, too. As he settles himself down, cross-legged, surrounded by his personal arsenal, he looks up at her. He gets this feeling in his stomach: relief, which is second only to nausea. Attachments are both life and death in this world. "Go to sleep, you need it," it's almost commanding, the tone he uses. Then he looks up at her, giving his approximation of a grin, "And I'd rather not get punched again."


	3. Scarred

Thank you Demonic Hope for reading! And putting up with me being slow, slow, slow. Enjoy! xo

* * *

Chapter 3: Scarred.

Carol stumbled across Beth, who was holding Judith in her arms, and looking haggard. The baby is sobbing and sobbing, Carol and everyone else in the prison know because it's been going on for so long. Beth, unable to soothe her looks helplessly at Carol, who smiles, scooping Judith up. The younger girl looks gratefully at the older woman, before practically running away from them.

_She's too young for this_, Carol thinks, watching her go. The baby wails against her arm and Carol looks down. "You're too young for this too," she adds in a quiet, singsong voice. Her heart swells with the knowledge that a week ago, she was thinking that she'd never see this baby again until _he _found her. Rick would say something about how she needs to be off of her feet still, but she can't lie down anymore. She hates that feeling of uselessness.

Carol shifts and Judith settles her head against Carol's shoulder, but her hot tears wet Carol's skin and her cries shake the walls of the prison. Carol looks around a little uncertainly, ensuring that they're alone, although they never really are, before she starts singing quietly, "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…"

She doesn't know that Daryl is sitting in the cell when she walks in, cooing at the still whimpering baby, eyes lolling shut, in her arms. "Daryl!" She breathes, jumping, sounding startled, but she's laughing until her eyes fall over the bare skin on his back, littered with white scars, elastic looking against his skin.

His head snaps around and he clamors to pick up his shirt, "What're you starin' at?" He barks at her, getting to his feet and pulling the fabric over his head. Judith starts crying all over again and Carol doesn't know how to react. Before she can say anything, he pushes past her and stalks off.

She stands completely still, watching him go, thinking nothing, the sound of his footsteps echoing in her skull and everything. Who did that to him? Why did they do it? Why didn't he tell her? And most of all why did she expect him to?

/

After Carol finds him, Daryl completely overreacts and then storms off, picking up his crossbow and heading outside. The sun is stifling, making his skin feel sticky, but there's a cool breeze, a final, lingering reminder of their long winter. He considers screaming, opens his mouth to, but the chorus of groans and moans, coming from the Walkers reminds him there's no need to draw that kind of attention. Instead, he glares at the trees surrounding them and starts walking toward the gate.

She has her own scars, he knows she does, and he hates the way she looks at him when he yells, like he's going to lift a hand to her or hurt her. He remembers with a burning embarrassment that night at the farm when he tried so hard to get her to stop caring, because he doesn't deserve it, and she calm as anything just said, "Go ahead." He never would have hit her, but did she know then? Does she know that _now_? She flinched when his hand raised and he watched her walk away. He didn't sleep that night. He won't sleep tonight either. He absently kicks the grass and walks back toward the prison to find his bike.

"Daryl!" She calls, and he stiffens, stops walking, waits for her . "Daryl, hang on," She's coming toward him, not running, but walking with a purpose.

"Yeah?" He grunts, arms crossing over his chest. He shifts from one foot to the other.

She pauses, like she wasn't sure he was really going to stop and he sighs in mock impatience. "Sorry, we walked in on you." He shrugs, because it's really no big deal, so she takes this as a sign to continue, "Where… how did you get those?" She gestures vaguely with her head toward his back.

"What's it matter?" He responds, shrugging his shoulders again, shaking his head, his voice high pitched and angry, "It was before all-a this, and it don't matter anymore."

And for the second time, Daryl walks away, unreasonably angry, and leaves her standing, unreasonably confused.

/

Hours go by. Carol's standing over a fire, making something canned and terrible for dinner. What she wouldn't give for a filet mingon or a $100 bottle of wine. Anything that's not – she stares down into the pot – anything that's not _this_.

"Hey," A voice from behind her says, her body instinctively getting tense, a nervous gesture, and slowly turns.

Her response is stiff, "Hi," before she turns back to dinner.

There's a tense silence and he doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know why she's mad, but he's sure it's his fault. It usually is. Maybe that's not fair. He yelled, got mad before he had any real reason to, and she happened to be in his line of fire. He closes his eyes so hard he can see colors swirling beneath his eyelids. For some reason, the image focuses him.

"My dad," he says finally and she turns to look at him; her eyebrows are raised, she's expectant, and he sighs, "My back. My daddy was a mean sonuvabitch." He looks at her helplessly, hoping she just understands because she usually does, right? Out of anyone, she usually just gets it, whatever it is. He's hoping she knows he just doesn't like to talk about it.

She nods her head and turns back to dinner.

He adds, "I'm sorry," when she turns away. In his head, he goes further and punctuates with, _I'm just not good at this kind of thing_ and _I don't like talking about it_, because _he_ doesn't like to be defined by what his _father_ did. He didn't mean to yell and he didn't mean to get mad. _She knows, right? _He stands awkwardly behind her, waiting. Waiting for what, he's not sure. Without thinking, he starts walking closer to her and she turns to face him. Her hands tighten around the spoon in her hand, an old instinct he's sure. He stops immediately. He, at least, understands. Knows that they've had the same sort of life. Unyielding, uneasy, unforgiving. They've seen the same things, experienced the same world, differently. It's this, he thinks, that ties them together, maybe. Being completely and utterly free from a world that left them totally broken. No one else in the group could understand the backwards logic of this. He realizes he's staring at her.

"Well, you didn't have to yell," She chastises quietly. She takes his hand in hers and squeezes it. She does this so he knows she's not mad anymore, bridging whatever schism between them he's so obviously trying so hard to float across. Maybe she never was angry, just concerned.

The images of his scars, white skin, taught over his tanned, muscular back, flash through her mind. She bites her lip, thinking Walkers or no, the world has always had the capacity to be unfair. Her hand drops and she's aware of how grateful she is he ended up in their group. They all are, but she knows that he's done more for her than he has for most. They seem to be sewn together at the sides. She offers him a small smile and turns her body back toward dinner. Yes, they're all lucky to have him, whether or not he knows or believes it.

He stands behind her, his hands hovering awkwardly over her elbows, then her hips, then her shoulders; as his hands hesitate, he thinks he could turn her around with and kiss her back. He's not smooth enough to, so instead his right hand falls on her right shoulder, squeezing gently, before he walks away.

Thank god she always just understands.


	4. Smooth

Hello! I'm back to finish! Enjoy! xo

* * *

Chapter 4: Smooth.

In his head, Daryl has this whole thing mapped out. He walks up to Carol, grabs her by the arms, and kisses her. He mumbles something sweet and sentimental, about how she's changed him for the better, how she's the best thing in this wasteland. In his head, it's smooth and perfect and she reciprocates.

In reality, Daryl is standing in the watchtower, just looking for a moment of peace, when he hears her climbing up the stairs, leading to – _to him_. Before she reaches the top, he grabs hold of his crossbow, which at this stage feels like a third arm. He goes nowhere without it. A washcloth is pulled from his back pocket, and he's scrubbing the bow furiously, without meaning or reason, just as a distraction for his hands and his head. This is as smooth as he gets and it's a complete and utter farce.

"What're you doin' up here?" she asks in that quiet, soft tone she's notorious for using, even at her angriest.

He grunts and shrugs in response.

_In his head, he walks up to her and-_

"They're talking about leavin'," there's a palpable pause while she searches him for some sign of truth or denial; she sighs when she realizes it's not just talk. Finally, she offers, "I've only just come back," in a laughing tone, as if this is some kind of joke, but nothing has ever felt so serious. There's nothing funny about the way she thought she was dying and the ginger way he carried her back.

He offers her a small smile, unsure what to say. What to do. Is there a wrong answer here?

Another silence.

"I'll be back," he tells her finally. Although, it comes with more caveats than it might have once. He's not going out to get milk or eggs or dinner. He's not going out in Merle's beat up Chevy to the local watering hole. He's not – he's not doing anything as simple. He doesn't remember what that feels like, to go outside and not feel that sensation in his gut, like he might never return. People have always been killing people, but it's different. The world is fucked. He realizes he's staring at her and sighs, looking away.

_-walks up to her, grabs her by the arms-_

There's a chorus of moans below them. It's loud and permeating. A constant reminder for the life they live, the personification of hopelessness. You either live or become _that_. One of _them_. It happened to her daughter. It happened to his daddy. It happened to _Merle_. He shakes his head, trying to physically expel this from his head. The knowledge that this is all so hopeless.

"What are you thinking about?" Carol asks suddenly, breaking his train of thought. He hadn't noticed she'd moved: while she cowered in the doorway when she walked in, she stands now, leaned over the handrails surrounding the windows. The sun paints her in a symphony of color, reds and oranges; she seems out of place here.

Looking at her, he realizes how ridiculous it is.

Nothing is completely hopeless.

His lips purse, a visible sign of hesitation, before he says, "My brother."

She nods, giving him an understanding face, before looking back outside. "I think about my Sophia all of the time," she commiserates, "It's hard to know that this is life now," with this, she gestures broadly outside the window. He nods this time, hoping his face doesn't give away how ironic he finds it that she's always vocalizing what he's thinking.

_-grabs her by the arms, and kisses her._

He wants to. He wants to do it so badly, just hold on to her for dear life and kiss her because it might be the last chance he ever has to. The last moment he gets before he succumbs to reality. The Walkers echo in his and Carol's silence. He sighs and starts biting the skin around his thumb. She watches him quietly, says nothing. He knows without looking, he can actually feel her eyes on him.

In his head it's: _don't be such a goddamn pussy about it, brother_. He can hear Merle's voice, gravelly, coarse as sand, reverberating against his eardrums. He realizes his palms are sweating and he rests his crossbow on the ground, for fear of dropping it. She sighs and it's the loudest noise in the room.

"What?" he asks, feeling awkward._ I'm not fucking good at this shit, please._

She doesn't look at him and her eyes squint, not against the sun, but because she's thinking. "Sometimes, I wonder what we all had to do to deserve this." And before he can inquire as to _what_, she's elaborating, "What makes the world all of a sudden turn on its head? Why did all of this happen?"

He's never heard her speak this way before and he's afraid if he interjects (although, what he would say, he doesn't in this moment know), but he's afraid if he interrupts her, she'll stop, and in this moment, he loves the sound of her voice, even if he feels little and stupid in light of what she's saying.

"I just don't understand. I don't understand any of it," she's now glaring at the hoard surrounding the prison gate.

"None of us do," he responds, although it feels _lame_ in comparison to what she's just articulated. It doesn't hold the same weight. "It ain't all bad, though."

She smiles at him and sighs. "Come back soon, okay?" she says, but he doesn't have the time to answer before she's on her tiptoes, kissing his cheek, and then retreating.

In his head, he has this all mapped out: he walks after her and kisses her, holds onto her for dear life because what else is there in this wasteland, in this world comprised of death and destruction? There's her and she's the most important thing he's ever cared for. Quietly, he thinks she's more important to him than Merle ever was. Out of pride, he'd never admit it. While she walks away he mumbles, "yeah," a clipped version of his usual snide remarks, the closest thing to a promise he'll ever say aloud.

She waits until she's outside of the watchtower, leaning against the hot metal, before she starts crying. They leave and she doesn't sleep. She and Judith pace the night away, a sort of dance they've fallen involuntarily into.

She's ecstatic when she sees the car come back.

And she's broken completely in half when she realizes: he's not with them.


End file.
